


Time is Only a Function

by ijen



Series: Time and space are not conditions by which we live [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 13:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijen/pseuds/ijen
Summary: Five years in space, God help Leonard McCoy.[Set at the start of the five-year mission between the end of Into Darkness and Beyond]





	Time is Only a Function

**Author's Note:**

> I had some unpublished scenes from [But Who's Keeping Count](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14198937); I ended up expanding on them because I have zero self-control and for this I apologise.

## 10 months before

"Jim, I have half a mind to reject this five-year commission because you're a reckless son of a bitch who relishes bungee jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire; even if you've got another one up your sleeve, there's only a limited number of Get Outta Jail Free cards in this universe, and I've already seen you dead once, I know I'd never get used to it."

Jim doesn't slow his pace; Leonard isn't sure if his head is nodding from how fast they're walking now, or because he's actually listening to him.

"But?" offers Jim over his shoulder.

"Shut up, there's no _’but’_ ,” snaps Leonard, "I'd have you know the other half of my mind screams at me to walk away from spending five years in cold dark dead space and start growing my roots here, on this damn planet where there is actual gravity and soil and hospitals that appreciate me and a daughter that needs to know me. God fucking damn it, man, this is me being _logical_!"

Leonard finds himself short of breath, but not out of physical exertion. He's annoyed that Jim has dropped his pace; nothing pisses him off more than the idea, even of his own mind's suggestion, that he slows Jim down. Fuck that. Jim runs and leaps and pirouettes through danger and fire and disease, and Leonard McCoy keeps up just right behind him with a hypo at trigger ready. That is _their_ fucking thing.

"Don't scare me like that, Bones," says Jim. "I don't know how to handle you at your logical best."

Bodies clad in red and gray weave around and knock past them. Jim grabs him by the arm and pulls him towards a corner with a potted plant and less traffic.

"Bottom line," whispers Leonard, "I ain't gonna watch you die one more time, Jim. I can't."

"I know," says Jim, leaning so close Leonard could count his freckles if he hasn't already memorised them. "And that's why you're coming with, so that you can continue saving me."

Leonard groans. "Yeah, and you continue taking me for granted and givin' me goddamn heart attack—Jim!" he yelps, shoving Jim back towards the crowd of passing bodies. "Jim, this is sword fern, you're violently allergic—"

Jim's face is already growing as red as uniform of the concerned cadet that stops beside him. Leonard curses a stream as he produces the antihistamine hypo that is always on his person.

"It's okay," he says to the panicking cadet fumbling with Jim, who is laughing noiselessly through swollen lips and giving him a deformed thumbs-up, "I'm his doctor."

 

* * *

## 1 day before

Even amidst all the excitement of the launch, Jim's managed to find a minute to sneak in to the medbay and drops something amidst the growing pile of PADDs persistently requesting for the CMO's signature.

"I swear to God, Jim, if it's another Tribble," mutters Leonard as he looks up.

"It's a going away present," says Jim. The piercing blues only look more startling framed by dark eye bags.

Leonard crosses his arms. "Jim, it might have escaped your notice, but I'm going away _with you_."

Jim gives him his best mysterious grin. "Laters, Bones. Look smart for the launch."

He watches his Captain jog out of the medbay to be immediately swarmed by this and that ensigns and yeomen holding up their own PADDs, like how people used to chase for the attention and autographs of a celebrity in more barbaric times. He turns back to his own responsibilities and scratches the one-day growth peppering his chin. Do they really need this much cordrazine?

His eyes crawl towards the badly wrapped package.

It is a few hours later in the privacy of his own quarters he finds that Jim has given him giant sets of vintage posters bearing long-limbed women in various stages of undress. The yellowed edges of the posters leave him wondering if these are excellent artistic finishing, or if these are evidence that these pin-ups are indeed genuine twentieth-century specimens. Then he notices the rows of numbers underneath each painting in black ink much crisper than that of the rest of the artwork.

These are dates. Calendars. And they start from this month, running all the way until—five years from now.

He only discovers the small handwritten card when he gets up from his bed and said card falls off his lap.

_"We can count down the days or we can look forward to them. J."_

Leonard sighs and meets the eyes of a buxom blonde in green one piece who seems very surprised to find herself in an oversized cocktail glass. Is this not Jim's way of telling him that in the whole of five years no one else will ever enter his quarters and therefore judge his taste in interior design and/or get the wrong idea about his commitment to gender equality, so why the fuck not hang these up?

 

* * *

## 2 weeks on

"What is the status of the Captain?"

"I can't—" In this darkness at this speed Leonard is barely clinging on to safety; for all intents and purposes, his scanner is out of reach, nestled inside his kit that is hanging wildly behind him. He curses, grits his teeth, tries to reach out and feel for clammy skin. He already knows it's not gonna work. His steady sensitive surgeon hand can't tell shit, not when they're moving so much.

"I can't tell, not until we reach safe grounds!"

"Understood."

Even darkness seems to blur around them. Again and again his stomach sinks as the ground disappears beneath them. Leonard closes his eyes and presses his face into his warm anchor. The scent of musk overwhelms his senses.

"How much further?" he yells, still keeping his eyes closed.

"Three point sixty eight kilometres, Doctor," replies Spock, as calm as if he is not presently running and bounding through this dark alien woods filled with whatever disease gifting flora and fauna, with Jim in his arms, and Leonard clinging on his back. "We shall reach our transport point in five Standard minutes. Meanwhile, please keep a tight hold on my person. I foresee that we shall be on less even grounds shortly."

"Oh, I'm holdin' tight alright!" cries Leonard. Jim is lucky he's not awake for this; heck, he is lucky that Jim is not conscious to witness his humiliation of basically riding to safety on the green-blooded robot elf. His puny human legs couldn't have outrun the very angry, very motivated natives, especially not after he sprained his ankle tripping over Jim's unconscious body, and Spock had said that it was only logical—

Leonard spins his head around so fast he risks whiplash. The darkness behind him is broken only by the outlines of faintly glowing leaves.

"Spock! Weren't there people chasing after us?"

"Indeed there were, Doctor," says Spock. "It has not slipped my notice that the natives have ceased their pursuit of us around two minutes ago."

Something crawls up Leonard's back and he hopes to dear dear God that it's not an alien life form.

"So," he mutters, "out of the crocodile's mouth..."

"There are no crocodiles on this planet, Doctor," says Spock. He pauses as he leaps, and then falls, and Leonard screams. "Nor," continues Spock, slightly panting, "are there tigers. But certainly there are hungry mouths awaiting us."

"No! Stop it, Spock! This is the worst possible time for you to attempt humour!" bellows Leonard.

"Do not raise your voice, Doctor," says Spock, "you may attract whatever scares the natives."

"I think our noisy ass escape would have alerted any such thing to our presence a long time ago!"

Leonard's skin tingles, meaning that Spock must have raised an eyebrow. "Sound logic, Doctor."

Now he's positively terrified. Leonard tightens his hold around Spock. His hand brushes against the soft strands of Jim's hair, and he can't help but stroke his forehead. As if Jim is in a state to appreciate his calm and caring gesture. As if he himself is in any state to be calm and caring.

Another drop. Leonard doesn't know if it was him involuntarily grunting, or if said grunts are coming from behind them. He pastes himself even closer onto Spock.

"Are we there yet?"

"One minute, Doctor," says Spock patiently. "Can you reach any one of our communicators?"

Leonard kicks himself up and forward to reach down to Jim's belt. "Sorry, Jim, sorry," he mutters as he feels the bulges around his hips, because Leonard McCoy is never not a gentleman. "Got it—ENTERPRISE, McCoy to Enterprise, McCoy—"

Spock clenches under him at the loudness of the silence greeting them. "Keep trying, Doctor, we are reaching the clearing."

"I AM TRYING, SPOCK," booms Leonard, "ENTERPRISE, MCCOY TO ENTER—"

"—bloody hell!" croaks the comm, "I cannae believe—we have them—"

"SCOTTY BEAM—"

Another drop, and Leonard bites his tongue. He's holding on to the communicator with the tips of his fingers and with dear life.

"We are here," announces Spock like a pilot that has just touched down. Well excuse me, Leonard grunts inwardly, if I ain't about to applaud your landing.

Spock takes Jim's comm from Leonard's shaking hands.

"Mr Scott," he says, "three to beam up, energise as soon as you lock on our bio signs."

"Stay where you are, landing crew, your signals are weak."

"Affirmative," replies Spock. Now that he's stood still, Leonard can feel waves of pants and muscle shaking wrecking through the Vulcan. He hops off Spock to land on his uninjured foot, and quickly rounds to his front so that he can check on Jim.

"I've got ye, landing crew, four bio-signs are poppin' up on our screen, signal still erratic, stay still."

"The tiger!" gasps Leonard. He limps forward, one arm sweeping Spock behind him, the other bent, clenching his phaser tightly.

"There cannae possibly be tigers on Centurion Vega Six, McCoy!"

"I have informed the Doctor as much, Mr Scott," says Spock. He's placed Jim onto the ground; he has his own phaser out too, and together he and Leonard make a tight circle around their captain. "The fourth bio-sign will be a local predator, Mr Scott."

"Better get ye out fast then," says Scotty, "energising!"

As the air around them hums, and Leonard prepares himself to die and have his atoms scattered while a new man in his likeness with his memories are reassembled hundreds of kilometres above this bloody hell hole, a roar hits them. He sees several rows of fangs clamping down around him; he smells decaying flesh trapped in teeth—

—he's in the transporter room, cradling Jim in his arms, Spock leaning on his knees over the both of them, his phaser pointing at a very shocked Scotty. He feels the warmth of the blood before he sees it covering all of them. His mind is already screaming at the kinds of plague and parasites they are blanketed in presently.

And then those piercing blues flutter open. Jimmy boy has always got the best timing.

 

* * *

## 2 months on

Jim's tray is a mountain of mashed potato which has erupted in gravy, capped in mayonnaise, dotted with jagged fragments of bacon breaking the surface. A large drumstick sheds golden batter into Volcano Cholesterol as Jim sinks his teeth into it.

Such a child. But Leonard isn't gonna take the bait.

From the corner of his eyes he catches Spock studying Jim's life choices with that eyebrow cocked, before turning said eyebrow to Leonard in... Is that eyebrow speak for conspiratorial, or impatient? Excuse me if I'm not a walking Vulcan eyebrow language dictionary, harrumphs Leonard inwardly.

"Your appetite appears to be suppressed, Doctor," says Spock as Jim ravenously digs into the cardiac time bomb of his dinner. "[Is it a side effect of the medication you are on?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14198937)"

Leonard certainly would give the hobgoblin A for Effort—he can sympathise how difficult it is for anyone, even a most sociable human (which Leonard does not profess to be), to be making small talks right now.

"I'm not on any medication, Spock," says Leonard. His spoon makes a lazy circle in his chicken noodle soup. "Got a clean bill of health."

"Spock," says Jim, pausing in between shovels of mashed potato, "remind me again what does Regulation 4 Paragraph 1 Point a of Ship Medical Officer Rules, under, I believe, the heading 'Duties to the Patient'?"

Spock gives the briefest of glances at Leonard; this time, Leonard would guess the eyebrow is saying _'Brought it on yourself, bro'_ , but of course, as constantly pleaded, it's not like Leonard is an expert in Vulcan cryptic waggling eyebrow speak.

"A Medical Officer shall always act in the best interests of the patient. Any conflict of interest between that of the Medical Officer and the patient must be properly managed so as not to compromise the patient's best interests. A Medical Officer shall cease to act in his their capacity as Medical Officer in a case where such conflict of interests cannot be avoided."

"Thank you, Spock," says Jim grimly, "It certainly codifies important principles all medical officers, especially the Chief Medical Officer of a Starship, must bear in mind."

Leonard slurps a spoonful of his soup. He's not going to take the bait, but he can afford to set the record straight.

"Spock," he says calmly, "have you looked at my medical report submitted to you at 0915 hours yesterday by Lieutenant Commander Doctor Geoffrey M'Benga in his capacity as Acting Chief Medical Officer of the USS Enterprise?"

"I have, Doctor."

"If the Captain is implying that I had certified myself fit for duty and in the course of so doing breach the conflicts rule as I cannot be my own patient, the report signed by Doctor M'Benga shows that the basis of the Captain's statement cannot stand, and his argument must fail."

"I remind you, Mr Spock, that I have seen the medical report," says Jim almost immediately, "and I have expressed my concerns to you that Doctor M'Benga might have been, say, compromised into signing the report?"

"I believe, Mr Spock," says Leonard without looking up from his soup, "that if a Captain wishes to make grave accusations of his officers' conduct, the proper forum is clearly not a dinner in his quarters where the accused and the accuser cannot stand to look at each other in the eyes?"

Spock's chair slides back with a clatter as he stands up. "Gentlemen," he says with a small sigh. Spock has always been taller than them, but Leonard feels like he's especially towering over them now as he looks at them in turn with those deep dark eyes.

"Captain, in the excitement of Doctor McCoy's recovery you may have forgotten that this dinner is of your own suggestion," says Spock, the evenness of his tone belying the sharpness of his words.

"Spock," says Jim, waving his fork in protest, "I scheduled this dinner during much happier times, before a certain Doctor shows himself to be a real ass about one, being careful in the field, and two, not being a goddamn stubborn bastard about recovering properly before resuming active duty."

"I put on record that my presence here is under protest," says Leonard.

"I put on record that I came here expecting a reasonable dinner companion in my Chief Medical Officer."

"I put on record that the Captain is acting like a petulant child," barks Leonard, "and I only came because I was under the impression that someone was finally going to be mature enough to discuss his insecurities—"

Leonard turns to look at Spock at the same time Jim turns to look at him.

"I don't have insecurities!" asserts Jim as his fork drops with a clatter into one of the craters he's made in his field of mash.

"Spock," gasps Leonard, "I only came because you said Jim needed to talk tonight."

"If anyone has insecurities, Doctor, let's talk about how you have been acting like a jealous—Spock...!" Jim too gasps and pauses as he shifts his chair to squarely face Spock. "Spock, you told me Bones was coming to apologise for how much worry he's caused me—"

"Holy shit," whispers Leonard.

"Spock," says Jim hoarsely, "did you..."

"Spock, you lied," concludes Leonard, his lips curling up despite himself.

Even though Spock's expression is the smooth marble it always is, Leonard can't help but bring to mind a scene of a child getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He takes his seat again, and folds his arms on the table in front of him.

"I did not lie," he says simply. Leonard opens his mouth, but Spock continues: "I merely acted as a conduit through which words each of you wish to say to the other but are prohibited from due to your human nature can be passed on to the other."

"You creepy green-blooded elf," hisses Leonard, "Did you do that Vulcan mind reading trick?" He clutches his temple as if he would be able to find the evidence of such ministration. "Listen here, Spock, you can't just force your way into people's brain without their consent!"

"I did no such thing, Doctor," says Spoke with a reproachful lift of his eyebrow. "The Captain's and your unspoken feelings manifest themselves so loudly on your countenance, even I cannot choose to ignore them."

Leonard barely fights off the urge to dunk his head into his soup to cool off his burning cheeks—he settles for running a hand through his scalp while looking at a fixed point beyond his shoulder. From the corner of his eyes he sees a slow grin creep across Jim's face.

Spock isn't finished. "Furthermore, as the ship's First Officer I am duty bound to ensure that the Captain must always be at his optimal condition at all times. The Captain is after all, still human, and despite his best efforts will remain affected emotionally by conflicts in personal relationships. It is therefore logical that I take upon the responsibility to ensure that this conflict between Jim and Doctor McCoy ends amicably."

"Jesus," groans Leonard, "this isn't the first time Jim and I fight, Spock. This is just embarrassing—don't, _don't_ look at me, hobgoblin!"

Jim's grin is unbearable to behold. "Nyota put you up to this, didn't she."

Spock shifts slightly, as he is wont to do whenever his relationship with Uhura is brought up. "On the contrary, Captain," says Spock slowly, "Nyota is of the opinion that you two will, I quote, ' _kiss and make-up in no time at all_ '. I disagreed with her diagnosis of the situation, for the consequences of you losing your relationship with the Doctor are so great it necessitates a prompt intervention."

Jim turns to Leonard. "Are we gonna kiss and make up?"

"Shut the fuck up," barks Leonard. "I hate y'all. And you, Spock!"

The eyebrow jumps up again.

"If you think you can just waltz into my personal life—"

"While I received instructions in several forms of classic human dances, Doctor, I did not 'waltz' —"

"—if you're gonna mess with me like this," insists Leonard, "you sure as fuck ain't gonna be doing that while calling me 'Doctor', you coward, call me by my damn name."

Spock looks at Jim, as if he needs his fucking permission to use Leonard's name.

Jim leans in, the piercing blues gleaming wickedly. "Do you know what the 'H' in his name stands for, Spo-oooooowch! _Bones_!"

"Was that your foot, Captain _Tiberius_? Sorry, I forgot that you've taken to taking your shoes off in your quarters lately."

Now, Leonard isn't an expert in Vulcan eyebrow speak, but Spock's eyebrows seem to have judged them all a lost cause.

 

* * *

## 13 months on

This just about is the goddamned best day in Leonard's life. Sure, maybe they'd started it routinely depressing, what with having to beam down to check on an agricultural colony that's gone radio silent for three years and whose settlers by all accounts should have died drowning in radiation that typically kills a grown man within a week, but honestly now that Leonard thinks about it, they really do over-worry about trivial things like this. It's not good for your body, y'know, it's not healthy to always be so damn worried, and to always be tense and wound-up from anxieties and complaints and general perpetual displeasure with the state of the universe because things never are the way they should be. Leonard should know, because he's a doctor, and one who was terrible at taking his own advice.

But that's all in the past now. Today he is reborn: today he is going to start to enjoy the shit out of his life because goddamn why did he even let himself be so miserable, especially when he could just kick back in this perfect weather that so reminds him of the Georgia spring with a dang nice refreshing glass of mint julep. He has an entire long and healthy life to enjoy now, [the spores will make sure of that](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/This_Side_of_Paradise_\(Star_Trek:_The_Original_Series\)).

In the distance he sees his fellow crew mates shedding their uniform for a more comfortable colonist hemp jumpsuit. Good idea, thinks Leonard, let's get into something more natural than this ridiculous stuffy get-up. Well, there's no rush; Leonard's gonna take his time sipping this serving of mint julep before he even wants to think about moving.

Two figures are skipping towards him hand in hand. Leonard would recognise that tall pointy-eared visage anywhere. He smiles and takes another long sip of his drink.

"Len!" grins Uhura, "Spock has something to say to you."

The Vulcan in her arms giggles. Uhura gives him a kiss on the corner of his lips and then pushes him closer towards Leonard.

"What is it, Spock?"

"Doctor," announces Spock, "I love you."

Leonard smiles. "I know you do," he says fondly. There is only love on this planet. Love and peace and joy. Leonard realises all that love and peace and joy have always been there; they just have to be discovered within the mountain of anger and worries and negativities he carries like a burden. Now the pollens have helped him understand the truth, and now he is set free.

Spock bends down and gathers him and his drink in a hug that lifts him off the ground. "Dang, Spock," says Leonard after Spock deposits him onto his feet. "I don't know why I've been so hard on you."

"You're naturally abrasive, Leonard, especially to people you care about," says Spock as fondly, "it's part of your charm."

Leonard just laughs and shakes his head to himself.

"He's just left with Jim now," says Uhura. "Any idea where he is?"

"Oh, he beamed back up hours ago," shrugs Leonard. "He'll come down soon. He loves that ship, he'd need a moment to say his goodbyes."

"Yes, Jim is the last on board," concurs Spock, "once he beams down, nobody will be able to access the ship anymore."

Leonard fishes out his comm. "No harm checkin' in anyway," he mutters. He wants Jim to be here with them, to be happy, to be at peace, to be together.

"McCoy to Enterprise."

The line is silent but for static fizzles. And then: "Kirk here."

"Jim-boy!" exclaims Leonard. "You beamin' down soon? C'mon, we're all waitin' for you. Spock's got something he'd like to say to you."

He brings the comm closer to Spock, who promptly leans into it. "Jim, I'd like to tell you I love you."

The line falls silent again.

"Jim, did you hear that?" says Leonard, "Spock wants to tell you he loves you."

"I heard it," chirps Jim's voice. "I know, Spock. I love you too. I understand now, I have joined you."

"That's great news, Jim-boy!" whoops Leonard. "Oh, by the way, we wanted to check if you needed any help beamin' down."

"I'm fine," replies Jim, "I took some time to pack. Thought we could use some of the Enterprise's machines down in the colony. Anything you'd like me to bring for you?"

Leonard's only prized possessions are a picture of Joanna and his father's ring, both of which he always carries in his person. Anyway, thinks Leonard, material attachment is really the bondage that keeps them all strapped to a cycle of greed and insecurity and negativity. He knows better now.

"Just yourself," drawls Leonard. Uhura snickers and makes a sound like a cat roaring.

"Be patient, Doctor," laughs Jim, "in a bit we'll be in paradise forever."

Leonard thinks his face is cramping up from all the beaming and grinning — in his expert medical opinion, these muscles have clearly become stiff from disuse.

"Oh, now that I'm in the transporter room — actually, Spock, could you beam up for a moment? I can use your help here."

"Of course, Jim," says Spock generously. He twirls Uhura and catches her close. His hungry lips claim hers. "I'll be back soon," he mutters as their foreheads rest against each other.

Jim’s voice replies: “Thanks, Spock. Stand by for transport."

Spock turns to Leonard, and gives him a wink twinkling with mirth and promise. Leonard's heart skips a beat and he almost drops his drink.

"Ready whenever you are, Enterprise," says Spock.

The air hums and Spock is gone.

Leonard, ever the gentleman, offers his hand to Uhura, as well as her very own glass of mint julep.

 

* * *

 

Leonard just had a nap so good, he can't even remember falling asleep. He raises his arms overhead and gives himself a nice long stretch, his shirt scratching against the bark of the tree he's leaning against.

He feels a tinge of guilt for having dozed off in Uhura's company, but he knows her to be a kind-hearted and understanding lady who would be able to surmise he was in the middle of a 36-hour shift when he was ordered to beam down here with the landing party.

He catches a glimpse of Uhura among a group of the ship's crew in the distance, sitting or lying down in the grass, basking in the warmth of the star and the general bliss that is being alive. Every day he has always worried for these people—every damn day they'd be boldly going into whatever unknown disease and danger, every day he sees them and wonders when he will see them in his examining table in a bodybag.

But that's all in the past now. Everyone will be well and alive and safe now, right here at Omicron Ceti III. He just has to wait for Jim and Spock to beam down too and he knows he will be at peace forever.

Speaking of Jim and Spock, where _are_ they? Judging from the position of the star in the sky, Spock's gone for quite some time now. He squints into the cloudless expanse of azure even though he knows there is no way he can see the Enterprise in orbit from here. The comm beeps into life in his hands.

"McCoy to Enterprise." He taps his thigh as he waits for a reply. "Come in, Enterprise."

"Doctor."

"Spock!" says Leonard, "what are y'all taking so long for? Do you need help?"

The line coughs static. There's a muffled muttering, and then: "Bones."

"Jim-Jimminy-Jimmy-boy!" Leonard stands up, as if this short distance can meaningfully bring him closer to Jim. "Did Spock tell you to your face he loves you yet? Why aren't you here yet?" He licks his lip. "Y'all having a party up there by yourselves? Could've given us the courtesy of an invite."

"Yeah, sorry, Bones," says Jim sounding entirely not sorry. "Only Spock and I can do this. Spock, can you — ah, _yes_ , that's a good fit right there. Bones, can't talk right now, but we'll see you soon."

Something doesn't feel right. Leonard scratches his neck — after a few hours of relaxing, his hair there is standing at attention again.

"Jim?" he says, cautiously this time, "what's going on?"

"Jim," says Spock's muffled voice, "perhaps... opportunity... using the Doctor's..."

"Using my what?" barks Bones sharply. "Spock, don't talk behind my back when I'm on the line with you."

"Bones," rings Jim's clear voice, "since subtlety only works with you if it's hammered and then drilled into that thick skull of yours —

Leonard frowns. “Where did that come from?”

"— don't interrupt me, McCoy!" snaps Jim. "Not when I'm talking, and not when I'm with Spock. I am so sick and tired of tip-toeing around your miserable lonely ass. Who the fuck do you think you are, thinking that you have some kind of claim on me?"

"A _claim_? What the fuck, Jim—

"Of course I prefer Spock over you, you neurotic hillbilly. My God sometimes I can't even hear myself think by the way you keep fucking nagging at me."

"Jim," says Spock.

Leonard's blood boils; there is so much pressure building in the pits of his stomach that in his expert medical opinion it is such potent fuel mix of anger and hurt it will blast him off into fucking space, right into the bridge of the Enterprise, and propel his fist right into Jim's face.

"What the fuck are you good for anyway? You're not super strong. You're not super smart. You know what, Spock may be half alien but goddamn he's got a much better looking —

"Jim, that's enough," says Spock's muffled voice. "Doctor, are the spores gone?"

Listen to him talk about fucking spores, I’ll show him spores when I ram my hands down his fucking throat and excise his tiny fucking Vulcan balls— _woah_. Leonard shakes his head furiously and blinks his eyes rapidly. He looks at how his free hand is shaking violently, and how his other hand is white from clenching at his comm too tightly. His knees are weak; he collapses back into the grass. Any sense of peace, any sense of tranquility, they’re all gone now; all that remains in his bones are the fundamental elements of Leonard H McCoy MD: fear and fury and exhaustion and regret.

“Bones?” says Jim’s voice, an uncharacteristic timidity seeping through the evanescent connection.

“Yeah,” croaks Leonard, “it’s just me now. Get me the fuck off this goddamn planet. Please.”

 

* * *

 

The atmosphere in the ship was decidedly a sombre one for the next few days. But what else would you expect from a crew that recently found themselves in paradise, and then quite violently ejected themselves out of it. This case is certainly one for not just the medical journals, but also psychiatry ones. When Leonard will have the time to sit down and start on a draft article is still, for the time being, highly hypothetical. Starfleet agrees with the Enterprise medical crew's assessment of the case as that of psychological manipulation and parasitic infection. This means all 400 plus of the crew members, as well as the hundreds of colonists from Omicron Ceti III must submit themselves to psychological examination on top of a very thorough physical one. A sizeable number require further counselling and treatment. That 36 hour shift has morphed into the longest shift of his career.

Leonard is therefore not entirely pleased to find Jim leaning against the entrance to his quarters. His plan of diving right into bed, boots and all, seems to have flown right out of the window like a startled chicken finding herself in an oven tray.

“Long day, Doctor?” says Jim with that grin and that easy angle his body makes against the wall.

“Jim, unless your Andorian Herpes has come back or you’re otherwise dying, I don’t wanna see you right now.”

“Now that you mention it,” says Jim, snapping his fingers, “I do have a burning sensation down in my—"

"What do you want?" sighs Leonard, because he always gives in to Jim so why even bother.

Jim pushes himself off the wall and grabs Leonard's shoulder. "A quick dinner," he says, pulling Leonard closer to his side, and not-so subtly steering him in the direction of Jim's quarters. "I made meatloaf. You love meatloaf."

"You _replicated_ meatloaf," corrects Leonard.

"And chili," adds Jim, still pulling Leonard along for the journey, "you love chili."

Leonard sets off a stream of threats and curses which causes passing crew member to glance nervously at their captain, but eventually he finds himself in Jim's quarters, seated down in front of Exhibit A as to why he does not ever replicate his favourite food.

"Let's just get this over with," says Leonard, pushing away the offensive display. "You wanna talk about Omicron Ceti III."

"See, Bones," says Jim cheerfully, "this is why I love you, you're a straight talker: you get right to the point—"

"I know you said what you said to get the spores out," says Leonard flatly. "No ill feelings, Jim." He pushes his chair back. "Can I go now."

Jim catches his wrist before he can rise from his chair. He doesn't need to tug hard to make Leonard stop.

"As always, I wasn't honest during my psych exam," says Jim with absent guilt.

"Jim, I'm a doctor, not a confessional priest."

"Bones, you're my doctor and you're my friend," says Jim, "are you really going to walk away from this rare occassion I wanna open up to you?"

Those piercing blues with their goddamn thick eyelashes blink so expectantly at him Leonard could only release the world's longest sighs and takes his seat. There is however nothing this universe can bribe him with to make him touch the travesty on a platter in front of him.

"I saw M'Benga's report," says Leonard.

"'Course you did."

"He made a special note that your mental fortitude and resilience is a subject worthy of further exploration," says Leonard. "That is to say, your damn stubbornness is now of scientific interest."

Jim shrugs as if he expects nothing less.

"I said terrible things to Spock to snap him out of the spores," says Jim. "It's a lot harder to emotionally compromise him this time 'round. You know I don't like bringing in somebody's mother or their lover to make a point."

"He knows you don't mean it," says Leonard in a hollow voice.

Jim nods. "He agreed afterwards that it was a logical course of action." He takes a deep inhale. "Here's the thing, Bones: I don't feel half as bad for what I said to Spock as I do for what I said to you."

"Because he's a logical robot while I'm an emotional wreck," snorts Leonard.

"I wouldn't put it that way," says Jim.

"Could it be," says Leonard, "it's because you pissed Spock off, but you _hurt_ me." He crosses his arms and hugs himself close. "I hate that you know my weakness. That fucking _Spock_ knows my weakness."

"Sorry," mutters Jim.

"Nah, ain't your fault. I'm the bastard who wears my heart on my sleeve anyway," grunts Leonard. He's still staring in disbelief at the dish in front of him. How the fuck can any intelligence, artificial or otherwise, think that meatloaf is akin to compacted sawdust of whatever meat is replicated out of?

"Bones," pleads Jim.

No, Leonard doesn't want those piercing blues to see the weakness in his eyes now.

"Bones," says Jim, "I should have said something much earlier. I know how you feel and yet I did jack to assuage you of your fears."

"I'd have socked you if you'd tried," says Leonard.

"Yeah, but you can never take me on, so no excuse," grins Jim.

"Say that again when you're lying in my medbay," growls Leonard, "ass side up."

"Is that supposed to be a threat, McCoy?" laughs Jim with a wink. He's done it: he's got Leonard to look him in the eyes, and now he's surrendered a reluctant snicker, as if they're both teenage boys sharing a naughty secret.

"Aren't you gonna eat?" says Jim, gesturing at his plate.

"Don't pick another fight with me," warns Leonard. He folds his hands under his chin. "Jim, one more thing. Don't you ever, _ever_ think that I'll make you choose between Spock and me."

Jim's pulled Leonard's plate towards himself and is now shoveling a large chunk of meatloaf into his mouth. "It's not too bad," comments Jim, to whom anything that is overly salted is halfway decent.

"Jim," says Leonard.

"I'd sooner choose between my arms," says Jim through a mouth full of meatloaf, "and I'm ambidextrous. But you already know that, Doctor."

"Show off," grumbles Leonard. He fights off the urge to start tucking into the pretend meatloaf just to hide his face.

 

* * *

## 17 months on

The sky is only getting darker and Leonard will bet his tonsils—newly grown in the aftermath of Omicron Ceti III—that it can only mean things will get worse from here. For one, rain will certainly the hill that awaits them in the distance will be a lot more difficult to climb, especially on this bicycle, and especially with his very heavy and very annoying luggage.

"I'm a doctor," mutters Leonard through gritted teeth, "not a rickshaw driver." He raises his hips off the narrow seat and pumps the pedals harder. "I can't believe," he huffs, "that your brilliant race has never learned to ride a bicycle."

"Incorrect, Doctor," says Spock behind him, "it is merely that bicycles are evolutionary fossils in terms of Vulcan scientific and cultural development. Would it be reasonable for me to expect you to be able to operate a power loom from your Industrial Revolution?"

"It's not the same," snaps Leonard, "I ain't gonna ride a blasted weaving machine to safety, am I?"

He swears he can feel Spock's muscles against his back twitch to raise the damn eyebrow.

"I am however confident that if I were to have a little time with the bicycle, I would be proficient in it quickly," insists Spock. "The physics behind this vehicle is very much child's play."

"If we get outta this alive, I'll let you have your quality time with the damn bike," pants Leonard. He swings one hand back and catches hold of Spock's wrists. "Hold on tight, Mr Spock, I don't wanna worry 'bout you fallin' off!"

"Doctor, at this speed my inertia shall be more than enough to compensate any backwards forces on me—"

Leonard jerks the bony wrist forward and nestles the hand at the crease of his hip. "You making fun of my pedalin', Spock?" says Leonard, "I can't help that this is a goddamn single fixed gear bike but my God am I gonna put my shapely calves to good use!"

The other hand snakes around Leonard's waist. The long pale fingers begin digging into his shirt.

"Attaboy," says Leonard. He looks forward to the long journey ahead. Big fat rain drops are now falling upon them. He growls, lets loose the empowering mantra of _COME ON YOU BASTARD_ and pushes on.

 

* * *

## 20 months on

Chief Medical Officer's log. Star date... The prison is kept bright at all times and there is no window to the outside world. Food and water are given sporadically. We have no way to tell the passing of days. The reprieve between the pains they force us to choose between feels shorter every time, but this can be a psychological phenomenon, a trick of our fatigued minds. Time is only a reflection of change.

I do not know if Captain Kirk knows of our fate. I don't know if he is aware that his mission of diplomacy is not going to be as simple as Starfleet makes it out to be, not when the very people he is supposed to charm over and negotiate with have got an ace up their sleeves in the form of his First Officer, and this old country doctor.

He might know; I can't be sure. Captain James Tiberius Kirk is an excellent poker player: the higher the stakes, the better.

As a Starfleet Officer, I believe the Captain will do whatever is necessary for the good of the Enterprise and the Federation.

As a friend, I believe the Captain is not going to abandon us, and this belief gives me both hope and despair.

The cell door is opening; they are coming back with—oh my God—

 

* * *

 

First Officer's log. Star date 2260 point 291, or 292.

Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy and I are still imprisoned in the same cell described in my previous entry. We are both still alive, although the Doctor is presently unconscious. He had tried to charge at our captors when I was returned to the cell after another interrogation session. It was an unnecessary and illogical action on his part, for he knew as well as I that the probability of our overpowering our captors in our weakened state is close to zero. The Doctor's fluctuations of temper, much more frequent and much more passionate than that of an average human being, give me grave concerns over his chances of survival.

That is not to say I will not be doing my utmost to protect the Doctor. I will gladly give my life up for him. I have surmised through his previous actions that he will do the same for me, in all his illogical passions.

As are expected of all Starfleet Officers, I am capable of administering basic first aid on humanoid species. I am relieved to report that Doctor McCoy does not appear to have permanent injuries from the blow to his temple. His breathing is weak, but regular. I have rolled him onto his side in recovery position.

From the fact that we are still alive and our captors' treatments fall short of inflicting lasting permanent damage, I believe that our captors do not intend to kill us as of now. We are still of value as Federation hostages. The best case scenarios for both parties will be for our safe delivery to Starfleet in consideration for the favours our captors want, which I have so far gathered to be the recognition of their leader's claim to this planet's throne, and then to receive Federation assistance in subjugating and claiming for themselves this planet's moons and neighbouring planets. I am unable to approximate with much certainty when that date of delivery would be. My worry is that Doctor McCoy's human body may not be able to survive to that date. My being a Vulcan allows me to withstand greater physical adversity and recover at a quicker rate than humans, but Doctor McCoy will not let me take his share of interrogations, nor accept the food and water I offer to him from my share.

As the superior officer on the field, I am responsible for the Doctor's well-being. I would have to answer to the Captain directly if I were to lose the Doctor. I would have no answer for myself.

 

* * *

 

Chief Medical Officer's log, supplemental.

I put on record that I was _not_ knocked unconscious because I lost my balance and hit my head against the cell door, despite whatever First Officer Spock may otherwise report. I was merely winded, as one tends to get when one is subjected to blunt force trauma to the head. In my expert medical opinion, I am physically fine but for a bruised temple and pride.

I also put on record the extent of First Officer Spock's injuries. Multiple lacerations and bruises across torso and all four limbs, as well as across the surface of his palms and feet. I suspect a cracked rib, and I fear internal haemorrhaging in the abdominal area. I wonder if our tormentors have an understanding of Vulcan physiology. If so, they are clearly far more terrible adversaries than we have taken them for.

There is little by way of medical supplies in this cell. We only have a limited supply of our own clothing materials to be used as highly unhygienic dressing. First Officer Spock has just entered the deep meditative state that allows Vulcans to heal expeditiously. Note to self: study the therapeutic effects of mind-body connection more closely once we are back aboard the ship. _If_ we are able to return to the ship. Redact that careless display of optimism.

The worst part is knowing that they are coming for me. I can't tell when, but it will be sooner than I can be ready. I look at the Commander in his own bubble of zen, and I fight the urge to snap him out of it and teach me how to do it. How to not be afraid.

Nothing to fear but fear itself.

I hear them coming. I hate to make this easy for them, but I can't have them disturb Spock.

 

* * *

 

First Officer's log. Star date 2260 point 293.

I was snapped out of my meditative trance by our captors. I was greeted with the sight of Doctor McCoy, despite his physical inferiority and subsisting injuries, attempting to wrestle one of our captors away from my person.

The guard Doctor McCoy was engaged with was one of the few we had met to speak Standard. In the ensuing tussle and Doctor McCoy's unparalleled abilities to swear anaerobically, I could not clearly make out what the guard was saying. I had to pull Doctor McCoy away, for his own safety, and for my curiosity.

Fascinating. They were under orders to bring me to their healer. This may suggest that Captain Kirk has made promising development in the diplomatic negotiations. I cannot however eliminate the possibility that a worse ordeal may await me at the hands of our healer. After all, as Nyota has told me previously, some cultures have the same word for _healer_ and _executioner_.

Doctor McCoy was not minded to co-operate with our captors. He placed himself between myself and our captors. I quote here his words verbatim as I am unable to provide a satisfactory summary of it.

"Not one of you son of a bitch is gonna touch him. If you're so damn concerned 'bout his health, take us to your medical facilities where I can tend to him. No one touches him but me, you understand? I'm _his_ fucking doctor."

The guard who spoke Standard laughed before translating the Doctor's statement to his colleagues. More laughter filled the cell, and I could tell from their body language that our guards had every intention to carry out their orders, with or without the Doctor's co-operation. I indicated to the Doctor that he should stand down. I informed the guard that I would abide by their request, as long as the Doctor was not to be harmed.

The Doctor's irascible reply did not disappoint. Out of concern for his safety, I was forced to disable him with a nerve pinch. I regret my action now as I did then, but I maintain my conviction that it was the best course of action considering all circumstances, including my duty to keep the Doctor safe.

The Doctor and I had no way of knowing that the Captain had brokered a peace deal between our captors the rebels and the ruling elite of the planet. Similarly, we could not have divined that the Captain would have subsequently convinced the leader of the rebels to take him to see us in our cell.

I was highly impressed with the Captain's ability to mask the anger in his face when he first saw us, each of us in a physical state that the Captain would be far from satisfied with, and the Doctor unconscious once more in my arms. I was also as impressed when he insisted on personally carrying the Doctor all the way to the beaming point when he had with him physically bigger and stronger security officers—but my admiration of the Captain has never been limited to his physical attributes.

I do not think the Doctor appreciates waking up in his own medbay, much less finding himself once more in a close proximity with myself, also unfortunately confined to the medbay under the Captain's orders. I attempted to ameliorate his discomfort by calling for the Captain once the Doctor showed signs of coming to. I also informed the Doctor in the meantime that I greatly enjoyed his company as a fellow hostage. I soon realised of the unfortunate phrasing on my part: I quickly assured the Doctor that I did not enjoy our regrettable stint as hostages, but I was indeed grateful for his companionship.

The Doctor replied with a threat specifying with great accuracy that belies an unexpected understanding of Vulcan physiology as to where he would put my appendages if I were to ever again incapacitate him whilst busy saving my life.

I understand the Enterprise has left orbit, and again we are proceeding into the dark depths of space. I put on record that I feel well enough to resume active duty. There is much to be done, there is much to look forward to. After all, we are only one-third through the five-year mission.


End file.
